The Prelude
by Angel of Mystery-145
Summary: 1870, France - Angel or Demon, Phantom or Friend? - Christine seeks to know, Erik endeavors to conceal. But when secrets come to light, it could cost them their very lives …Told from the hidden plot perspective, this follows ALW's Phantom as well as being the prequel to The Quest... story follows 2004 movie, but in a much deeper sense...E&C...R&R
1. Chapter 1

_**Both Phantom and King, he rules the opera in a web of lies and tyranny.**_

_**Only one timid chorus girl can tear through his silken threads of mirage and destruction,**_

_**But the toll on her heart is vast to free his trapped soul...**_

x

**A/N: This has been a long time in coming – and I know anticipated by a few. Now that I'm reposting the scene summaries of the Hidden Plot in a group I started on Facebook this year (since the forum they were on disbanded), I felt this a good time to begin posting this story. Also, since we all know how the movie ends – (and for those who read The Quest, you know what happens from that), I felt this was a good one to post on my birthday (per tradition) since I have so many other E/C stories in progress right now. At least with lapses between chapters of this one, you still pretty much know what happens and what the ending will be. :) So any wait won't be as hard (as with the others)...**

**First, I want to make clear, this is my interpretation of the symbolism they chose to use, for what I call the Hidden Plot. (Some may agree with me; others may have a different idea. It's all cool. ;-)) The symbolism found in movie (props used, ******description of settings, clothing, events as they happen, **etc) will be shown in the crux of the narrative I write - and I will include as much of it as I can, though sadly it is impossible to show all of it. Also, the dialogue from scenes shown in movie are often taken word for word - since sometimes the dialogue itself was a clue. But I chose not to use all of it, only bits and pieces here and there. When getting into their thoughts/motives/additional dialogue – along with any extra scenes (not shown in movie)- that is my interpretation of the symbolism only, and also crafted to go along with my finished stories of this series: The Quest, The Treasure, and The Claim (in progress). Whether any of the following was the intention of the creators or not will likely never be known. If nothing else, just think of this as a prequel story to my other stories in this series - a supernatural romance drama - with visuals seen and found in movie interwoven into the setting, sometimes along with their meaning. If this isn't all clear, you'll understand as you read on. :)**

**This is my original story (which belongs to me) with the characters and symbolism borrowed from ALW (which belongs to them). ;-) Also, I see no reason not to keep this T-rated, since I'm following the PG13 movie, but there is a slim chance that could change. (Forewarned is forearmed).**

**And so, I take you a little deeper into the tale we all love, to give you…**

**The Prelude**

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**XXxXX**

** I**

Above walls of white stone that had been cast in a shimmering rose hue, courtesy of the rising sun, twin statues of elegant gold stood on the topmost dome of the grand Opera House. One, the statue of a slender woman, stood beside a tall man, his arm uplifted, as if beckoning the masses to enter the wide doors and partake of all the musical pleasures found within…

Inside, a mystery lay veiled within the gloomy shadows of every rafter and beam of the gigantic theatre, where no light dared to filter through... silent whispers that intrigued the curious as much as they caused the unwary to fear...

For the past three days, the constant prickling of unrest mingled with a strange expectation, so thick, the air was nearly tangible from the experience.

"Have you heard anything at all?" Meg inquired softly.

"Not a word." Christine stared out over the empty auditorium from the balcony level where they stood.

"I wish someone would say something soon," Meg groaned. "Well, I suppose we'd better hurry back or we'll be late again, and Maman will have both our heads on a platter!"

Christine Daaé dropped her pensive gaze from the manacled and blindfolded statuary of nude women that ringed the top tier of the darkened auditorium and exchanged an anxious look with her dearest friend.

At times Christine felt equally chained to this establishment of the opera, ignorant of its inner workings and blinded to what was truly happening beneath the surface. She did not understand the mechanics of all that transpired beyond the stage of fake scenery; nor as a simple chorus girl was she meant to. But, like Meg, she sensed a drastic change would soon take place within the theatre, and she felt a restlessness to know the details.

Throughout her years in the musical edifice where she worked, lived, and played - first as a child of seven, and now as a woman of sixteen – she'd heard nervous whispers of a tyrannical king along with the frightened claims of a legendary Phantom, allegedly responsible for the occasional accident that occurred onstage and off during the past three years.

Secrets…so many secrets, the theatre was crowded with them, but Christine possessed the one most wondrous, a secret cherished for nearly a decade. She had never even told Meg, uncertain if her friend would understand or think her mad, though as children, in that first week Christine had been visited, she had hinted to vivid allusions. But when later _he_ gave the quiet command never to tell a soul, she had obeyed. As she always obeyed...

Even if she had begun to doubt what, for years, he'd led her to believe.

The two girls hurried backstage, down a spiral staircase and along the next level to the dressing room. In the distance Christine spotted Madame Giry, absorbed in reading something she held while clutching a golden goblet in her other hand. Odd. Christine had never seen her ballet instructor drink wine from anything but the crystal glasses scattered about her room. Odder still, the elder woman did not appear to notice the hustle and bustle going on all around her - the crew busy at their daily morning tasks, the chorus frantic at applying stage makeup and donning costumes before the first rehearsal was called, those already outfitted practicing in every available space backstage. Cast and crew rehearsed and worked, talked and shouted, rushing to and fro. But Madame appeared not even _to notice_ them, and Christine curiously watched the slim figure in black, her eyes then lifting to a huge shield-like medallion of a lion's head that hung on the wall near where Madame Giry stood. 'The _beastly_ ruler of the kingdom,' Christine had once heard a dancer snidely remark to another as they walked past it.

Christine clasped Meg's arm to gain her attention. "There's your mother. We could ask her if she knows anything."

Meg glanced in the direction Christine nodded, and her muscle tensed beneath Christine's light hold.

"Meg?" She looked with puzzlement at her friend.

As quickly as unease clouded Meg's features, her eyes suddenly brightened. "Oh, let's not bother her right now – besides, if we do, she'll know that we're late!" She laughed lightly. "Come along - hurry, _mon ami_!"

Christine offered no argument, sensing Meg's words a convenient excuse, but she would also prefer to arrive to the practice area before Madame Giry arrived, not that their instructor seemed in any hurry to get there.

She and Meg giggled and laughed as they sped around the last bend, stopping at the box of chalk dust to coat the toes of their slippers for ease of dancing along the polished floor, before hurrying into the next chamber.

To Christine's astonished shock Madame was already there, moving along the two rows of dancers who stretched out at the barres, her ever-present and unnecessary black walking stick tapping the planks as she watched and, on occasion, tapped against an unruly leg or prompted a slumped back to straighten.

How had she arrived before they did? Christine knew this theatre and its network of corridors like the veins that ran along her arm. There was no shortcut to allow for a swift arrival, none that she knew of.

Madame shot them a glare for their tardiness, and Christine buried her confusion, swiftly taking the vacant spot behind Meg at the barre, to stare straight ahead as she focused on her stretches...

As they practiced in the wings, the rehearsal of _Hannibal's Triumph_ played out onstage, Piangi as Hannibal marching proudly with his men and declaring their victory over the enslaving force of Rome in song. From the vantage point of where she stood, Christine caught a blur in the darkness high to the right. Her attention shot to the rafters beyond the performers and the swirl of a black cloak as its owner drew it up around himself and stalked away in apparent rage.

She blinked in mystified shock. Surely it could not be…the _Phantom_!

Before she could grab Meg's arm to alert her to the skulking figure in the dark cape, who was neither workman nor scene shifter, the cloaked form disappeared as if he was never there. She stared hard into the darkness that remained only darkness. Perhaps, with all the mystery in the atmosphere of late, Christine had only imagined the sight of the infamous Ghost. It stood to reason; in three years he had rarely been seen, and few of that number, according to legend, did not live to tell the tale...

The music from the orchestra came to an abrupt close. The performance and warm-ups abruptly ceased as cast and chorus stopped what they were doing to look at Monsieur Reyer in aggravated confusion, wondering where they had erred this time.

Monsieur Reyer seemed ready to throw his baton down in exasperation. "Monsieur Lefevre, I am rehearsing!"

"Monsieur Reyer, Madame Giry, ladies and gentlemen, please, if I could have your attention, thank you." Focus shifted to Monsieur Lefevre who walked between two strange men Christine had never before seen, one short, with white curly hair, mustache and goatee, one tall and dark like Lefevre. "As you know, for some weeks there have been rumors of my imminent retirement. I can now tell you that these are all true…"

Christine and Meg exchanged a look of surprise, each of them by their expression sharing the same thought:

Monsieur Lefevre was _truly leaving?_ But why?

"And it is my pleasure to introduce you to the two gentlemen who now own the Opera Populaire," Lefevre went on, "Monsieur Richard Firmin and Monsieur Gilles Andre. I'm sure you have read of their recent fortune amassed in the junk business -"

"Scrap metal, actually," the shorter of the two corrected.

"And we are deeply honored to introduce our new patron -" the man introduced as Firmin said.

"The Vicomte de Chagny!" his partner finished for him in a burst of enthusiasm.

Christine's eyes went wide with stunned shock to hear the name.

Meg put a hand to her shoulder. "Christine," she whispered, "are you alright?"

Still in a daze, she did not answer, but hurried nearer the stage to see, with Meg following. Her friend looked at her in concerned question when Christine abruptly stopped to stare.

No signs of the awkward ten-year old lad were apparent in the confident and well-dressed young gentleman who greeted those who flocked around him onstage. His hair had darkened to a light nut brown, no longer white-blond like the sun, but with that flashing smile that made one want to smile back - it was most assuredly her old playmate.

"It's Raoul," she breathed, barely aware she spoke. Seeing Meg's blatant curiosity, she went on to explain, "Before my father died, at the house by the sea…I guess you could say we were childhood sweethearts. He called me Little Lotte."

"Oh, Christine, he's so handsome!"

She nodded in agreement, recalling those days. They had been so young, so lonely – his parents too busy with social affairs to pay their son any attention; Christine's father a recluse in his cottage, though she had not known the extent of his illness then. Raoul had been kind, a friend, the kiss he had dropped to her cheek one day mildly unsettling but soon forgotten as they built castles in the sand.

As she watched, further introductions were made, and Raoul, no – the _Vicomte de Chagny_ as he was now called – expressed his gratitude and desire not to interfere with rehearsal, stating his eagerness to return that night for the performance and 'their great triumph'.

Christine tensed expectantly as he walked toward her, but though their eyes met briefly, he strode past without a word, and she felt the sting of his rejection. She shrugged, realizing her foolishness to suppose he would know her, the only similarity to the six-year-old child she'd been the presence of her long, dark ringlets of curls. "He wouldn't recognize me."

"He didn't see you," Meg offered in consolation.

Madame clapped her hands and swept toward the dancers as a signal that it was time for their number.

Outfitted for the manacles used in the _Dance of the Slaves_, several sets of three girls chained to one another leapt in ballet across the stage to the exotic music. Christine helped Meg fasten the iron around Meg's wrist before Meg also swept away with the two girls to whom she was chained. Christine was the only slave dancer to go unchained, though for a short few seconds of the dance, when her character sank in misery to her knees, she held a short chain by its manacles high above her head, only to lose it as she spun around and rose back to her feet.

She had been curious why she'd been singled out on their first day of practice, and what message her lack of chains was supposed to convey. "Perhaps you're the only one to break free of our dark master," Meg had lightly quipped, "and the only one able to free us as well. Hannibal sure hasn't done us much good."

Meg had giggled and Christine groaned at the witticism, rolling her eyes at such an outlandish idea. Her form was so slight and her limbs so thin, Meg once joked in concern that Christine should never step foot outside the Opera House once the spring winds swept through, because she would likely blow away to the other side of the city or break like a twig.

The idea of Christine Daaé being a savior to anyone was ludicrous, _she_ who had always carried a childhood fear of the darkness and slept with a lit candle beside her bed...

Her cue swiftly came, and she cast all thoughts of the bizarre choreography from her mind as she stepped into her role as one of the many slave girls of Rome, giving herself over to the dance.

To sing on stage was her highest aspiration; yet to dance with the rest of the chorus also gave her pleasure. She had worked hard to achieve her position, not as stylish or adept at the dance as Meg, whose mother had once been prima ballerina, the likelihood that the daughter would follow in her ballet steps certain. Christine did not envy her friend her skill that seemed to come more easily for her than it did others. Indeed, she hoped for Meg one day to achieve her dream, planning to be there to cheer her every step of the way.

Perhaps there was an Angel of Dance who had touched Meg, as there was an Angel of Music...if, in truth, he _did_ exist.

As Christine lightly executed her closing steps, she glanced over at her friend who was involved in another peculiar bit of choreography: Meg, now with _both_ wrists manacled, wrapped her chains around the neck of one of the male dancers with red-painted skin, one of several who portrayed their tormentors, and dragged him backward offstage. Beside him, a man of similar height and costume, with no chain to hinder, wrapped his hands around his own throat as if he felt the pain of his comrade and was also being dragged back by chains, these invisible to the eye. The new managers shared a conspiratorial laugh, Monsieur Andre throwing one manacle over his shoulder from the chain that had appeared around his own thick neck.

After a series of spins, Christine, along with the other slave girls - all of them suddenly freed from their chains - gracefully fell to one knee in a bow as the music came to a rousing finish.

"All day! All they want is the dancing!" Carlotta wailed in anger as the notes of the instruments faded into the empty auditorium.

Christine stood to her feet and drifted closer to Meg, as they watched Carlotta throw yet another one of her hissy fits. The diva offered complaints, the managers offered compliments – but neither seemed satisfied. Then one of the new managers suggested, with flattery dripping off his tongue, that Carlotta sing Elissa's aria from Act Three. The diva underwent an amazing but unsurprising transformation, from the sour pucker of a lemon to the crystallized sweetness of syrup -

It was enough to make Christine sick.

She rolled her eyes and shared a long-suffering look with Meg. Yet the worst was yet to come, and as Carlotta took her place, center stage, Christine noticed a few of the servants in the auditorium stuff pieces of cotton into their ears and wished they had some to spare.

"_Think of me, think of me fondly, when we've said gooood-bye_…"

Carlotta's caterwaul sailed into heights, painful to the ears, and Christine winced as the song endured.

"_Remember me, once in a while, please promise me you'll trrryyy._.._When you find, that once again, you long to take your heart back and be freeeeee_..."

Meg suddenly screamed, startling Christine. She turned in concern to look at her friend, who stared with horror into the flies. A prolonged creak came from high above, and every shocked eye lifted upward to see myriad yards of heavy tapestry used as a backdrop flutter down in rapid descent. Meg and Christine grabbed each other's arms, pulling the other back, and watched the threat unfold: La Carlotta sustained her faltering high note, oddly unaware of the tableau of danger – the fractured sound ending in a garbled cry as the tapestry found its target and landed squarely on the back of the diva's unsuspecting shoulders.

Christine blinked in terrified shock and turned her eyes up to the empty flies, her heart in her mouth as she glimpsed dark shadows shift and move.

"He's here," Meg breathed, turning to regard Christine with wide brown eyes. "The Phantom of the Opera!"

Troubled, Madame Giry looked at her daughter, before hurrying away toward the melee. Several men rushed forward to pull the weapon of cloth from the prone diva, who cursed and cried and snapped as she was helped awkwardly to her feet. The golden, crown-like hat that she earlier complained to hate, with its red jewel affixed in the mouth of a carved monkey, had managed to remain upon her head, and she now put her hand to where it covered her brow as if it pained her.

"Sigñora," Lefvere asked. "Are you alright? Buquet, for God's sake, man, what is going on up there?"

Christine, along with the others, looked up to the flies where the stagehand pulled on a wheel that brought the fallen scenery up off the stage.

"Please, monsieur, don't look at me. As God's my judge, I wasn't at my post. Please, monsieur, there's no one there. And if there is, well then… it must be a ghost," he snickered.

With the insolent tone he used, Christine wouldn't be surprised had he cackled in glee, and she recalled how Joseph Buquet took enormous pleasure in scaring the chorus girls with talk of the Opera Ghost. By his boasts, he had been one of the few to see him - and live.

"Sigñora, these things do happen," one of the new managers tried to placate their star, but being so new to the theatre and the opera - how could he know of the accidents? Had someone told him?

"For the past three years, 'these things do happen.'" Carlotta sneered, lifting her index finger in emphasis. "And did you stop them from happening? No! And you two! You are as bad as him…!"

As Carlotta continued her tirade, Christine glanced at Meg, noting her attention was fixed elsewhere. Christine followed her pensive stare to see Madame Giry slowly walk the perimeter of the stage while staring up into the flies.

Carlotta exited center stage in an angry tizzy, her entourage following in her wake. But what captured Christine's attention was the white rectangle of paper that fluttered to the ground near where Madame Giry stood. Gracefully, she bent to retrieve it, looked high into the rafters once more, then broke open what was sure to be the seal of a red skull and unfolded the missive.

"I have a message, sir, from the Opera Ghost," she said, almost amused.

"Oh God in heaven you're all obsessed," Firmin remarked in disgust.

Madame gave a quirk of a smile. "He welcomes you to his opera house -"

"_His_ opera house?"

"And commands that you leave Box Five empty for his use…" She pointed with her walking stick to the box nearest the stage, luridly adorned with a leering skull and two complete skeletons. Twin statues of veiled women slaves, each with upraised arms holding a rope, flanked each side. "…and he reminds you that his salary is due."

"His _salary_?"

"Well, Monsieur Lefevre used to give him 20,000 francs a month…"

Christine listened to the demands of the well renowned Phantom of the Opera with avid interest. She knew of his existence, everyone in the theatre did, had thought she'd seen him only moments ago - but never, until now, had she heard one of his notes read aloud that so explicitly detailed his _private_ requirements. Usually, they only had to do with the current production, the dancers, the orchestra - but these sounded like the commands of _a_ _king…_

Which gave Christine pause to wonder…

She felt her arm tugged and turned to Meg, who pulled her a piece back from the ongoing circus.

"Those two clowns don't seem to know how things are run here," Meg leaned close to her ear to whisper, "but they'll learn soon enough. At least we know now why everyone has been acting so strangely."

Christine vaguely nodded and, unable to refrain, quietly broached what was uppermost on her mind. "Meg, do you think the hidden king of the Opera House and the Phantom could be one and the same?"

"What…?" her friend regarded her with wary surprise. "Whatever makes you say that?"

"It stands to reason, doesn't it? We have been told the two exist, were taught to respect one and fear the other and obey both – but what if it's _the_ _same man?"_

"Why would a king engage in such a ruse?" Meg argued just as softly.

"Maybe he's a bit mad?" Christine half joked, startled from their private conversation when she heard her name loudly announced.

"Christine Daaé could sing it, sir." Madame Giry approached, and clasped her behind the shoulder, drawing her forward.

"What, a chorus girl?" one of the new managers scoffed. "Don't be silly."

"She has been taking lessons from a _great_ teacher."

"Who?"

Startled, Christine floundered with what to say. She could not tell them her secret: that an angel in the night had visited her since she was seven, but in recent years she'd begun to doubt the validity of his claim to celestial mastery. And, of late, had even dared to wonder as to his probable mortality…no. They would think _her_ mad if she said any of what ran through her present thoughts!

"I don't know his name, monsieur," she said quietly.

"Let her sing for you," Madame suggested. "She has been well taught!"

Christine eyed Madame Giry in a mild panic – what was she _doing_? Yes, she had been taking lessons from her Angel for nearly a decade, but this was happening much too fast. She was not yet ready to sing solo in front of a crowd of her peers! These men – and she suddenly realized – they were looking for a replacement for La Carlotta! Someone to take the lead! She felt a little lightheaded with the scope of what suddenly lay before her, what was _expected_ of her, and looked toward her ballet instructor with nervous uncertainty. Madame nodded in calm reassurance. Even Meg smiled in encouragement. But Meg didn't know what to expect, had never heard her sing, not like this…

_It's only a song, _she tried to tell herself_, you have sung these same lines before, when in the chapel with your teacher_.

Her teacher, her Maestro whom she still thought of as her Angel. His genius he had given to her freely, whether he be mortal or celestial, and she desperately relied on his gifts now.

Nudged gently to the center of the stage, she let her eyes briefly fall shut to block out their faces and brace her fledgling confidence...

And then, Christine Daaé lifted her voice…

All around, members of the cast and crew drew closer in disbelief and awe, while high above, the shadows grew still and watched with silent approval.

**xXx**

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**A/N: Would love to know what you think – :) Also if you have any confusion or questions with regard to how I wrote the symbolism, etc, feel free to comment or ask.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Am so glad you guys are enjoying my humble interpretation of what I perceive to be the Hidden Plot story - and my idea of how the entirety of symbolism they put into the movie worked together. (There was also the same symbolism in the stage production, but nowhere near as much as was in movie, probably because they didn't have as much room to work with things like that) :)**

**Thank you so much for your feedback! It is highly appreciated...  
**

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**XXxXX**

** II**

Still trembling from the impromptu audition, Christine made her way through shadowed corridors, thankfully empty, to her cloistered place of refuge and direction.

Here, within these hallowed walls, she had often come to feel close to her father.

Here, the Angel of Music first beckoned when she had been sad and lonesome.

And here, in this sacred place of music and prayer, the darkness could not find her.

With the conclusion of her song onstage, there had been no danger to befall them, no more falling tapestries, no unseen threats. Indeed, the atmosphere had been relieved and triumphant, the new managers congratulating each other as if they were responsible, and Christine felt the need to escape the revelry and withdraw into seclusion….

She thought back to the audition.

On trembling legs and continually prodded along by Madame's persuasive nods, Christine had taken center stage, barely able to conceive how she had gotten there. And as she stood with her heart banging against her ribcage, unable to draw breath into frozen lungs to sing the notes required, without accompaniment and spotlighting her voice alone, she had sensed _his_ presence, suddenly there, empowering her….as if… as if he sang _through her _– every pore of her body and soul in tune with his spirit. And, _somehow_, she knew that had actually happened.

She could still hardly believe that she had been awarded the part. She was to take La Carlotta's place and play _the lead_. She, Christine Daaé, fifth girl in the chorus line. And every minute that had built up to her operatic victory was all thanks to her mysterious and unseen Angel of Music.

In wistful contemplation, drawing forth flame to taper, she lit one candle above the memorial plaque with her dear papa's picture. The candle gave an airy crackle as flame met wick. "How I wish you were here to share my news with…" Her mind traveled down a different but familiar path. "And how I wish _you_ would cease to always hide from me. Why, oh why is it that you never allow me to see you?"

Her mournful plea went unanswered, as always. Her solemn gaze lifted to the beautiful painting in oils of the nearest angel illuminated by the candle's solitary glow. Softly she sang, "Angel of Music, come to the light. The delay has been too long…."

She brought the wish forth, kept long inside her heart, but still the silence lingered.

As a child, she had not minded his physical absence so much, too terrified and awestruck to dare question heavenly matters. Once she'd grown into a woman, childish uncertainty faded and the eternal mystery he presented intrigued her into wanting to know more, to truly understand the paradox he created. Any questions tentatively asked were never answered, as if he'd already left or, perhaps, left afterward in his displeasure to hear her challenge him, even so meekly. On the rare occasion she was gifted with a response, his reply had been swift and to the point that she must never ask to see him again, that such requests were forbidden. Yet even the angels of the Holy Bible that once belonged to Papa appeared to those whom they visited, a point she'd softly made when she knew she had his attention. It failed to matter; by his answering silence, he refused. Like the king, her Angel preferred to remain unseen…

_Like the king._

Earlier she had toyed with the fanciful notion of the elusive Phantom and the hidden king being one, but what if...

Her eyes remained fastened in startled thought to the celestial being painted in muted and golden tones upon the stone wall. Her Angel wasn't composed of strokes of paint or carved of plaster, and a part of her had begun to believe he wasn't entirely made of spirit either. He, with the heavenly voice that could make all other angels and mortals weep, singing to her so beautifully, so tenderly – surely a being that could only belong to the cherubim – and in the next moment, cursing all who worked within his opera house for their inadequacies.

As a mortal might do.

As a king _would_ do…

Angels did not swear in fury when others made mistakes, not the angels she was taught existed.

Nor did angels speak of foreign gods and demonic entities in a chamber designed for worship of the one true Deity, telling tales strung together with magic designed to fascinate a young mind.

Most of all, angels did not…_should not_…make a young woman feel such a dependency on them that when they were absent the soul felt adrift - and cause such a peculiar stirring inside the heart, inside the _blood_, when they were near. To hear his magnificent, rich tenor during her lessons, and especially while in slumber, made Christine feel things she should never, _never_ feel for an angel…

_Her_ angel, who she had begun to believe was as mortal as she.

If she was right, God help her, her heart might break like fragile glass to know he had deceived her all these years.

And if she was right, she could at last forget the hidden shame to dream of those things that should never come to pass.

And if he was _the king_ of legend -

She sucked in a flustered breath. No, she could not think beyond that. Surely it was _only_ a legend, a story of fiction crafted by a bored thespian, and any references she'd heard made to a hidden king or signs of fearful respect shown him over the years were enforced only by the superstitious.

Surely it was only that.

But if she was wrong, if he _was_ in truth an Angel of Music, her spotless guardian and celestial mentor that with his last words Papa promised, and her education of the traits of angels was woefully incorrect…then she had much to atone for with prayers of repentance to offer heavenward.

At least, if she was wrong, she had never spoken aloud of those things that had tempted her mind…

And she never would.

"Lonesome child, why do you kneel there in such despair?"

"Angel?" she breathed a happy sigh to hear the deep and airy reverberations of his distant tone, all melancholy having fled her heart with the first utterance of his sweet words. Lifting her eyes, she felt a flush paint her cheeks to think he might have discerned her most private thoughts. "Your dreams for me have at last been realized. I am to play the part of Elissa. Tonight."

"Yes, I know. Why then are you not pleased?"

She heard the first hint of impatience thread his tone with his query and hastened to implore, "Angel, forgive me. Please, don't be angry. I don't mean to sound ungrateful." She pressed nervous fingers together in the concealment of her skirts. "It is only that…" She hesitated with what to say, how to express her fear... "I am not certain I can fulfill all that you wish me to be, and I have no desire to disappoint you. I am only a simple girl of sixteen; a chorus girl, until an hour ago."

"Christine, you are worthy, far more worthy than any of the peons that inhabit this theatre. _You, _dear heart_,_ are _my_ Angel of Music," he stunned her by saying.

"You truly think that of me?" she breathed in wonder.

"Yes, Christine. I have chosen you, to impart my music, _to you_. The music is not only in the words you sing; it is an intrinsic part of who you are. For you, too, are now its guardian."

"I…don't understand." So often he spoke in riddles that fascinated even as they confounded.

"All will become clear when the time is right. The hour of your debut draws nigh and you must prepare yourself to take the stage. Remember, dear child, I shall be with you, though you cannot see me. My spirit is forever a part of you. You felt that bond today – I sensed it – and it will sustain you in all things musical. As you stand and sing, remember you are not alone. You are never alone. Your song, this night, will be ours…"

His dulcet words grew more distant as he spoke, and in distress she realized he was leaving.

"Mon Ange! Please wait. Why must you forever remain hidden from me? You said I was worthy - am I not yet worthy enough _to see_ you? That is my fondest wish. What must I do to gain your trust?"

Endless words of quiet yearning, and again they echoed softly against stone walls of the hollow and empty chamber, silence the only reply. She sighed in disappointment that her deep-seated need to _know,_ to _see_, to _understand_ might never be satisfied.

xXx

Madame Giry rested in the hour before she must arrive backstage and studied the oft-times corrected libretto, ticking off areas where small changes might be beneficial to the dance and jotting notes to herself in the margins. Too late to incorporate any changes into tonight's opening, her notations would have to wait for the next rehearsal.

Suddenly, without a breeze to stir them, the steady flames of three candles on her desk blew out all at once, leaving her sitting in the dark. Startled, she groped to find a lucifer from the drawer where she kept them and struck the flint to relight the tall candles.

A white face appeared in the burst of flame, and she almost dropped the lit match in fright to see the masked man who so silently had strode to her desk and now stared at her from the opposite side.

"Master…" she breathed, for she had no doubt who visited her. His eyes were hard, like green bottle glass, or the depths of a chill lake, soulless and empty. A half mask of ivory he wore fastened to his face, the expression on the unhindered side cold and commanding. His long cloak hung from rigidly-set shoulders, the low light catching the inside edges of the black satin lining.

He frightened her when he was like this, and she concealed her apprehension to the best of her ability, nearly twenty years at the task giving her endless practice. She had served him…_them_…ever since this man was a child, ever since _he_ whom all feared _killed_ through the child…now a man. No, more than a mere man - a _king. _

Few knew his full title, only those longstanding members of the theatre and perhaps, Christine, though she had yet to understand the truth of his identity or the source of his power. Other than Madame, only a small number had seen him in the flesh, always by accident, according to those fortunate few who lived to tell the tale, having each survived their own individual "accident" from those brief encounters. Two drunken stagehands and a flighty dancer, all three of which had little credibility and could have easily tripped and fallen, hitting their heads and hallucinating ghosts.

Most in the theatre believed the curious legend that more than two decades ago, an outcast royal found sanctuary somewhere within these walls, a legend passed down through the years and perpetuated through the authoritative notes and demands of the Opera Ghost who worked for the king...

A legend which bore its weight in truth.

She shivered at the secret so long concealed, the entirety of which no one but Madame knew, having long ago, from the start, chosen to play her own integral part in this protective masquerade. She did not ask the reason for his presence at this time; he needed no reason. She had brought him to the Opera House to live, to claim the musical kingdom that was, in fact, _his_ to rule. But he had not come alone.

The Master she served out of fear; the Maestro she served out of fealty.

The flame singed her fingertips, startling her out of her nervous daze, and quickly she lit one candle and shook the flame of the lucifer out. "What is it you wish of me?" she asked in nervous obeisance.

"Christine will sing Hannibal this night," he announced what they both knew in that strange whispery voice which proved exactly whom she addressed.

The Maestro had arranged the incident, and Madame lent her aid, encouraging the managers to give Christine the audition. But the Master, the _Phantom_, also had a part in requiring Christine to sing, though for what reason she failed to understand… unless he hoped to manipulate and control the girl as he did the king, and Madame desperately hoped that was not the case.

Christine was somewhat naïve, as innocent as a girl could be raised in a theatre that trumpeted lustful decadence at every turn. And in her quiet innocence, she was entirely too trusting.

"She has a lovely voice," Madame said in cautious earnestness. "You have trained her well. She will surely be a credit to your mastery, and together you will share in this great triumph."

Before her eyes, Madame watched as he dropped his head, chin to chest, and set his gloved fingers to the edge of the desk. A troubled expression of uncertainty swept across his features before he again straightened. His eyes were brighter, lighter in color, haunted and sad, but no longer without a soul. When he spoke this time, it was with more volume in the clear, rich tenor of the Maestro, soft and commanding. The voice of a king.

"After the performance, I will give you a rose with which to award her as a token of my appreciation and my intent – a message that I will come for her, as she has long asked of me. You are to keep all admirers from her door and all interlopers from interfering."

"You mean to take her with you?" she asked in shock. This, he had never done. "To your home?"

He inclined his head in a solemn nod. "I have given her all that I am, a very part of my nature, molding her and shaping her for the destiny that is hers to claim. She is to become my queen, in word and in deed, to reign by my side."

Hers was not the place to question, only to serve, but Madame thought of Christine as a daughter, and it was this that prompted her to speak. "She has been well guarded, for you, into her womanhood. I remember well the arrangement you made with her father, and I have gladly done all I could to aid you and carry out his wishes. But she is naïve and tender in years, despite her now being of an age to wed. May I hope that marriage will be the _prelude_ to the life you have planned for her below ground?"

His lips thinned in anger. "You dare question my motives?"

"No," she said with haste, "I wish only for your assurance. She is very dear to me."

It was a moment before he answered. "Christine is the embodiment of all that is beauty; Aphrodite in the flesh. I would not sully such perfection and treat her in a lewd manner that would suggest anything less than the commitment of matrimony. To live with and be one with me, always..." He hesitated and she sensed his sudden lack of confidence, lightning swift, as though he recalled why he hid himself away from others. Only in the matter of Christine, had he ever exhibited such uncertainty. "...That is, should she accept a union with this monster, this fearsome spectre…no, no. Arrangements must be made; she _cannot_ see the truth. I won't let her!"

As he spoke the last, his words sounded even less certain, almost afraid, and he seemed to draw into himself. The shadows crept closer as he moved back in retreat to hide within their embrace.

"Be warned, Madame," he whispered. "Do nothing to interfere."

In the weak flame of the one candle she'd lit, she couldn't see well into the darkness across the room, but she needed no more light to tell her _they_ had gone.

xXx

A knock sounded in warning before the door opened to admit Meg.

"Oh, mon ami," her friend breathed, closing the door behind and swiftly moving to where Christine stood. "You look simply divine. Are you nervous?"

Christine surveyed her image in the looking glass, which was crowned at the top by golden angels flanking a clamshell that held a pearl. Dressed as divinely as she was, she felt like that pearl – a hidden gem coveted and kept safe, soon to be revealed. Clad in the replica of an Empress dress designed for a royal named Elisabeth, Christine felt like a princess or a queen. Golden spangles designed as starbursts were sewn into the skirts of the pristine white gown that was tied in back with a ribbon of sky blue. The glittering starbursts were repeated in her ringlets of curls and from the lobes of her ears, dangling as iridescent jewels.

The exquisite costume fit her like a glove – designed to complement Christine's slender measurements, _not_ Carlotta's, who was much more buxom and larger all around. Christine studied her reflection in dawning confusion; there had been no time for alterations. Even had there been, she'd never been called for any sort of fitting. The seamstress brought her the dress less than an hour ago, had helped her into it, and behold…like the recipient of a fairy godmother waving a wand, she had been transformed.

"Christine?"

She broke out of her curious bewilderment and regarded her friend's face in the mirror. "How can I be anything but nervous, Meg? You heard me at the audition – I was unprepared. Though the song… at least, I did know the song, thanks to my teacher."

She thought of how her angelic Maestro introduced the aria into her nightly lesson weeks before. Had he planned for this to happen? Did he know all along that Carlotta would leave the rehearsal in high dudgeon, the plummeting tapestry not a spur-of-the-moment prank but a devised scheme to remove her from the production? Christine had gone back and forth with the belief that her Angel might not be a celestial, but surely he could not be _the Opera Ghost_!

Her breaths quickened as she desperately tried to join obscure pieces together, an impossible puzzle with identical edges that seemed to fit, but despite repeated attempts never gave the true picture. Madame Giry earlier persuaded the managers with the suggestion that Christine sing, but Madame worked for _the Phantom_, not the Angel… right? Madame, who took flak from no one, but acted toward the Opera Ghost as a servant and aide to a higher authority…but surely not…a _king?._

"Christine – you look ready to swoon," Meg said with concern, slipping her arm around her cinched-in waist and drawing her back to the dressing table. "Perhaps your corset is strung too tightly?"

"No, no, it's fine." She waved away her concern. "I'm fine."

"Well, sit here until your call comes," Meg suggested, helping Christine to the bench near the dressing table. "Would you like some water?"

Christine shook her head. "Thank you, no, I'm alright now. I just had a foolish thought – it was nothing."

Meg would only tell her that she was dreaming, allowing her imagination to dwell in fantasies yet again. Besides, she had never told her of her Angel.

"You have taken the stage already," Meg teased, "Or have you forgotten that you just performed in Act One?"

"Yes, but only within a group, never a solo. Never in the limelight, alone on stage, with everyone watching and waiting for me to make a mistake and horrendously fail."

Meg dropped to her knees and clasped Christine's hands that were held together tightly in her skirts. "You will do wondrously well, Christine. I know it. You have the voice of an angel."

An angel, yes…a Phantom…or a king.

But which one was _he?_

"Well, I had better change into costume for my next entrance," Meg said. "Will you be all right?"

"Yes, of course," Christine assured with a tiny smile and watched her friend hurry away to the common dressing room that before tonight, Christine also shared with the rest of the chorus girls. But tonight, she was the star, and with that privilege came use of the star's dressing room decorated in bright shades of pink. Oh, vanity, vanity! A dressing table with a trio of mirrors stood near the elaborate full length gilt mirror, and a dressing screen stood near the double doors. It was a posh room designed for comfort, woven throughout with little luxuries to aid its star performer. And, for this evening, at least, it was hers…

Christine brought her gaze around to the center oval mirror, noting the wide, startled expression in her dark eyes, and how pale her skin appeared, the face paint on her cheeks standing out in splotches.

A _star…?_

Though she had convinced Meg that she was alright, Christine had yet to convince herself.

Angel.

Phantom.

King.

She was no more certain of his identity than her own.

x

The call to take the stage arrived, and minutes later, Christine stood in a wash of blue-white light on the Meyerbeer set of a rock cliff sparsely studded with evergreens. To one side and behind, two children dressed as white-winged angels tended to two white horses. The backdrop of an ancient city was enclosed by a stone curtain, nestled far below in front of snow-capped mountains with a narrow river winding before it. A crescent moon, reminiscent of a woman, shone in a star-spangled sky, all of the lovely scene suggesting that Christine stood within heaven's realm, or perhaps, at the gateway of the gods and goddesses.

Directly above where Christine stood, in the center of the framework bordering the stage and in a place of honor, two golden statues were displayed, unlike any of the others throughout the entire Opera House. The woman, fully gowned, lay half reclined and looked toward the large cross she clasped in her left hand. Her right hand was held by a robed and hooded figure that reclined beside her. Where his face should have been was only darkness, and atop his hood a halo had been carved…

The Angel of Death, and a constant reminder of the wicked evil that infiltrated the theatre.

It was an absolute contradiction to her glorious Angel of Music, whose presence she again felt, as he had promised, and in that experience she found a measure of peace. Her voice brought the lyrical notes forth, but his spirit was what gave the music life and enabled her to sing with confidence.

His power confused and in a small manner terrified, in that she did not understand its source...Surely only an angel could sing into a person's mind, and only an angel could teach her to respond to him through her own thoughts…

A stir at the curtain of Box Five brought her attention there, and she saw with a jolt of shock that an intruder sat in the Phantom's Box, reserved for his use, though she had never once seen a clue that the Opera Ghost inhabited what he claimed was his to own. Blinded by the brilliant light above the royal box directly facing her, at first she could not see, and when she did, she noted it was the Vicomte who sat there. What nerve he had, to seize the Phantom's box! She wasn't certain she admired such reckless arrogance that could only bring trouble to everyone involved. Did he not recall Madame Giry's words that Box Five was for the Phantom's use alone? Or perhaps, since he'd been absent, no one had bothered to inform him of the note Madame Giry read to the managers. Monsieur Firmin, especially, had seemed hostile to the O.G.s orders.

Looking away from the Vicomte, Christine focused on her performance. But as she sang Elissa's song of wistful resignation blended with hope, her thoughts wandered to the man who beamed down at her from above and had once been a childhood friend. She thought, too, of her Angel who had been her teacher and confidant throughout most of her life. It was his spirit that sang through her, her words becoming their own to give, to covet and treasure, like a rare pearl of great worth …

"We never said our love was evergreen or as unchanging as the sea, but if you can still remember, stop and think of me... Think of all the things we've shared and seen_... don't think about the way t__hings might have been..._"

In the words of the aria she drew comparisons to her own life. A spirit, her Angel remained hidden, always hidden, but what if one day he should _leave_ her? And all she would have for companionship were memories, as Elissa faced? How devastated she would be! While Christine sang the next verse, with lyrics that oddly contradicted all the others, she thought only of her Angel, and with a mournful smile, she swept out her arms in an empty embrace…

"Think of me, think of me waking, silent and resigned. Imagine me, trying too hard to put you from my mind. _Recall those days, look back on all those times, think of the things we'll never do. _There will never be a day, when, I won't think of _**you**!_"

Far beneath the opera house stage, beneath the floor's grating of the musician's pit and down, down, down through the stone floor into the third cellar, the Phantom and King of Music stood within a mist of blue light. His head was lifted and his heart urged the angelic voice that drifted to him from above… _His Christine... _Her voice was sublime but her words were exquisite. For in that moment, he knew they were_ for him...  
_

Inside the theatre, the audience applauded in astonished appreciation of the high note flawlessly held, while the Vicomte de Chagny stared with wonderment at the beautiful, be-gowned woman in the white, spangled dress. In that instant, he recognized her, even while his discerning soul sensed something hidden beneath the music and her ethereal voice.

"Can it be…can it be Christine?" Stunned, he shot to his feet and clapped. "Bravo!" Immediately he turned on his heel and left Box Five, striding past the concealed figure of Madame Giry hidden behind a curtain, watching - and a mirror that stretched along the length of the entire wall and reflected in its glass everything but his image…

"Long ago, it seems so long ago, how young and innocent we were…"

In his exuberance, he took the stairs two at a time down to the foyer, paying little heed as he strode past a royal guard of uniformed soldiers, all of them bearing sheathed swords and standing in formation and at attention, like those found in service to a king at his palace.

"She may not remember me, but I remember her!" ...

Christine noticed the stir near the stage, in Box Five, once the Vicomte stood and left. Things were changed; her life had changed, and she kept that in mind as she continued into her last verse:

"Flowers fade, the fruits of summer fade, they have their seasons, so do we…but please promise me that sometimes, you will think …."

She felt almost buoyant as she proceeded into her intricate run, her voice trilling sweetly along the cadenza of notes in a flawless demonstration of skill and ease, while behind her, on set, a cloud moved in to cover the moon. She stair-stepped the notes into a brilliant finish and allowed her voice to reach heights that had been designed for the angels alone -

"…_of_ _ME!_"

Behind her, the heavy cloud rapidly skittered away from the crescent moon, which again shone bright and unhindered, while the audience cheered and stood to their feet in continual waves of praise.

Christine smiled and looked around the theatre, drinking in the boisterous adulation, as a shower of pink roses rained around and in front of where she stood and curtsied in gratitude.

She had succeeded! She had fulfilled all he wished for her and created her to be! She _was_ a star!

Together, they had fulfilled their shared aspiration, the single most greatest triumph of her life…if only he would come out of hiding and into her presence now, if only to stand beside her and receive the ebullient praise that belonged every bit as much to him…

If only.

xXx

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**A/N: Would love to know what you think! :) Sorry for the back and forth POVs (I know it's a writing no-no, but frankly, I don't care. ;-) You might say I'm a writing rebel when it comes to some of the stodgy rules that I have no idea who made up) - but at the same time, I don't want reading this to become confusing and tried to make it easy to tell whose head you were in ... The POVs changed pretty fast and furiously- lol- (and might again) - but it lacked in writing this scene any other way...  
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	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews! :) Please note: it would be impossible to put everything we've found into this story, with regard to the hidden plot, but I'm trying to include as much as I can through narrative and thought and dialogue while attempting to keep the story structure believable to POV, – I do want to say, it is not a continuity error when, for example, Meg enters the room and I mention a lampstand of 3 flames and when she leaves, it becomes a lampstand with 4 flames – I am writing how they showed these things in the movie, as I think they are important to the HP… And now...**

* * *

**XXxXX**

**III**

Five curtain calls and showers of roses later, once all final bows and curtsies of appreciation were given, Christine slipped away from the furor of celebration backstage and hurried to the chapel, with the hope that her Angel would meet her there.

With a slim wooden reed, she reached over to light it and the candle before her, blowing out the tongue of fire from the reed. She concentrated on the sole candle lit in the remaining cluster of them untouched by flame. Beneath its solitary brightness hung the small oval portrait of her dear Papa in his youth, when he had been a musician in the theatre orchestra. Above his head into the memorial plaque had been carved a depiction of the legendary crystal ring, the same ring that Madame Giry kept safe in her possession for Christine to have one day, when the time was right. Another tale of Papa's she had loved to hear…

"_Brava, brava, bravissima!_"

Upon hearing the beloved tenor voice that sung to her so sweet and low in praise, almost as a whisper, she lifted her eyes to the ceiling, her smile growing wide to know he had come to her at last.

x

In the corridors backstage, Meg had looked for her secretive friend for at least a quarter hour, having searched in a merry-go-round among the principal cast and chorus members that mingled in the dissolute gala. Around and around the same track, like a tireless horse on a carousel, again and again lifting up high on her toes, this time to peer over the thick cloud of pungent smoke from the smelly cigar that Monsieur Andre puffed on while he flirted with a brassy redhead.

On the landing above, Meg spotted two small boys, dressed as angels from the performance, still in costume and leaning against the rail to watch their betters indulge in celebratory decadence. Four wine bottles and four glasses stood between the children…and standing directly behind the angel on the left, she glimpsed in the shadows what appeared to be a dark, robed figure, still and silent...

Uncomfortable prickles raced over her scalp. She shivered and looked away, quickening her pace. Taking a dim corridor that twisted far from the raucous merriment, she ignored the couple in embrace who took advantage of the shadows, and soon arrived at the chapel entrance. With her hand on the wall, she leaned in slightly to peer, taking the stone steps that wound downward.

"Christine? Christine…?"

"_Chrisssstinnnee_…."

Christine gasped a little at the realization that her Angel was leaving, though he had only just arrived – why? Why was he cutting their time together so short, now that their shared aspiration had been wondrously fulfilled? His gentle voice speaking her name came as a bare echo, the shiver of a caress, fading on the last syllable. Before she could call out and beg him not to leave, having so much to tell him and so much to ask – Meg rounded the corner. Christine turned her startled attention to her friend, now understanding his swift departure. He never came near, nor did he remain during the rare times someone else was present.

Christine buried her disappointment deep and turned her head to regard Meg with a faint smile of welcome.

Her friend's lips curled upward in reply, though she shook her head with a hint of exasperation to find Christine there, and she flitted past a lampstand bearing three flames and over to where she knelt, sinking also to sit on her legs beside her. "Where in the world have you been hiding, really you were perfect." She reached over to touch her arm, and Christine's lips lifted in a wider smile, this one soft and mysterious. "I only wish I knew your secret, who is your great tutor?"

A troubled expression crossed her placid features as Christine regarded Meg, who'd always proven to be nothing but loyal. She didn't gossip with the other girls, and secrets shared between the two had remained steadfast. Christine considered the words she'd been instructed never to speak as a child; but nearly a decade had elapsed since those first days when she discovered her Angel, their combined dream now a reality, and everyone needed someone to confide in…Besides, Christine wasn't sure she could contain her excitement ad infinitum and not burst out with the truth in an unguarded moment. Would it really be so terrible to share?

"Meg, when your mother brought me here to live – whenever I'd come down here alone, to light a candle for my father – a voice, from above and in my dreams, he was always there. You see, when my father lay dying," she explained with remembered sadness, "he told me I would be protected by an Angel. An Angel of Music."

Meg's eyes widened more and more in shock with each sentence aired. "Christine, do you believe ... Do you think this spirit that your father spoke of is coaching you?"

Christine heard the gentle doubt in her words, the quiet concern that Christine lived within her imagination to believe in and hear fey voices, and her smile dimmed to realize Meg did not understand.

"Who else, Meg…? Who?"

Meg was without response, averting troubled eyes to the flagstones, and Christine's focus lifted to the painted angel on the wall. "Father once spoke of an angel," she sang wistfully, "I used to dream he'd appear. Now as I sing I can sense him, and I know he's here…"

As she continued to softly proclaim his unseen presence and untold genius, Meg tried to persuade her that what Christine experienced was only a whimsical dream and that she spoke in riddles, so unlike her. It didn't wound Christine's feelings that Meg didn't believe; it did sound like a tale created to send a sleepy child into peaceful slumber. But Christine knew it was real. She felt the bond with her Angel, warm and sure, and it was the strength of that bond mysteriously shared that kept her from speaking her inconstant belief that he was in fact genuine, not a true angel as she'd once been certain and had professed to Meg, but a flesh and blood man.

With her mind and heart lost in a bright cloud of excitement and anticipation, certainly it must be a trick of the eye to glance back as Meg herded her toward the stairs and see the angel in oils appear to have changed. Hair now long in length and brown of hue had replaced the short black locks, the lines softer, the gown whiter, the whole appearance of the painting more feminine and less masculine. Indeed, it seemed to resemble _her_ countenance…

Meg tugged her arm, insistently pulling her from the chapel, and Christine blinked and turned away from peering over her shoulder – (an illusion of light and shadow, surely) – and moved with Meg past the lampstand of four flames and up the winding staircase.

To Christine's surprise, Meg's voice joined her in song as they pleaded for an angel to come…

With Meg still leading Christine by the hand, they turned down a narrow corridor flanked by tall, heavy curtains. Immediately, the warm and contented feeling she'd found inside the chapel swiftly began to subside. A ruffle disturbed the mammoth curtain to their left, as if an unseen hand shook its edge, and statuesque shapes of shadows where props were stored could not only be perceived but felt beyond the curtain to their right.

"He's with me even now," Christine revealed, coming to a sudden halt.

Meg turned to look at her and lift her free hand to cover hers. "Your hands are cold…"

"All around me…" she continued in a nervous whisper.

"Your face, Christine, it's white!"

"It frightens me," she admitted.

Meg brought her hand beneath Christine's chin, gently forcing her to meet her reassuring gaze. "Don't be frightened..."

She urged Christine forward, to resume their trek backstage and leave the long, shadowed corridor behind.

At times, her sense of fulfillment at having her Angel near dwindled without cause to be supplanted by a curious dread she could not place, much less understand… as if an entity unknown encroached into her surroundings, one as invisible as her Angel, but nowhere near as welcome.

She had come to label and understand this entity as the Darkness. What she meant when she told Meg that he was with her and all around…

Perhaps this Darkness was even the dreaded Phantom.

Before she could bring up such a notion, Meg steered Christine down the corridor that led to the rose-pink dressing room, and all too soon, they came into the company of other members of cast and crew. No one approached Christine or spoke to her about her performance; they only stared with avid curiosity or ill-concealed envy.

She did not favor their wild, debauched parties, so common in the theatre, and often preferred to withdraw to some place peaceful to rest, to sing, to read. To meet with an unseen angel. She engaged in few social events and had fewer friends, most of her peers considering her an oddity favored by the Girys who, since Christine had come to the Opera House to live, guarded her as if she was a baby chick trapped in a den among sly foxes and ravenous wolves. Little had changed once she blossomed into a woman; indeed, Madame Giry's eyes only grew sharper, and Christine was astonished that she'd been able to sneak off to the chapel late in the night for her tri-weekly lessons, which altered to four lessons a week this past year.

_His_ praises, rare though they were, were as treasured to her as gold was to Midas.

And as she walked with Meg past the cliques of merrymakers, Christine certainly had no wish to be subjected to any pretense of praise and flattery, when the eyes that followed her told a different story.

In the distance she noticed Messieurs Gilles Andre and Richard Firmin, the latter holding a huge bouquet of dark pink lilies amid tall, drooping snowdrops, along with a sealed bottle of champagne. Both managers spoke to dignified guests, one of whom worked for a local newspaper – no doubt angling for a worthy story.

Having no wish to speak to anyone at present, Christine took the initiative this time and hurried Meg toward the dressing room before they could be spotted. Both girls were surprised to see Madame Giry waiting there. She nodded gravely to her daughter.

"Meg, I will speak with Christine alone."

She and Meg shared a curious glance – Why would Madame single her out? Was she not pleased with her performance? – but Meg dutifully left. Unfortunately, a swarm of admirers who had attended the performance rushed forward like a wave crashing against the opened door, which Madame immediately closed on their hopeful faces, shooing them away.

"No!" She growled a disgruntled breath. "No!" She forced the door inward and firmly shut it, nearly catching the shoe of one of the bolder men as he attempted to slip inside. She then turned to Christine, her impatience with the masses disintegrating into a weary smile.

"You did very well, my dear." She lifted a motherly hand to her cheek, then turned aside to pluck up a long stemmed rose that lay on a nearby table and handed it to Christine. "He is pleased with you."

Five small words, but the shock of what they contained rendered Christine speechless and she inhaled a wondering breath. He had never once sent her such a token, never sent her anything at all. Stunned eyes swept from Madame Giry to the be-ribboned rose clasped in one hand. And then the realization struck -

Madame must _know_ her secret teacher and had _seen_ him face-to-face! She must _know_ her Angel!

No longer a childhood story or hopeful dream, the rose she held was _evidence_ of his physical existence and more than that, more than that –

In the language of flowers prevalent of the era, this single rose bespoke of his desire for a secret meeting to take place between them, for a disclosure of the truth. And the velvet petals of bold crimson were a declaration of…

His passion? His _desire_? His_…love?_

Her breath faltered on its exhalation.

But the thin ribbon of shimmering satin tied around a thornless stem – what could that mean? Why would he wrap it in _black_, a color often associated with death and darkness?

So immersed was she in the rose and its meaning, she failed to notice Madame Giry cast a swift, insightful glance toward the floor-to-ceiling mirror before quietly slipping from the room.

x

Never taking her eyes from the exquisite blossom, Christine drifted to the vanity and sank slowly to the chair before it, her skirts billowing about her in a starburst-scattered cloud of white silk and tulle. Fingering the long ebony ribbon, a multitude of questions continued to swirl inside her mind.

How often had she begged him to come into her presence, to come out of the shadows and into the light? How often had she hoped he would tell her his story, so that she might truly know him?

Once, as a child, she had dreamed of a beautiful but strong, winged creature with long golden hair; and though of late she doubted such an image held any truth, she still yearned to see him!

Would tonight be the culmination of her dearest wish granted? Or had she misread the secret message of the lovely rose, their clandestine meeting destined to take place, as always, with him regrettably hidden from view?

Her brow furrowed in dismay, her manner now troubled.

"Little Lotte thought, am I fonder of dolls, or of goblins, or shoes ..."

At the lighthearted words spoken by a pleasant masculine voice, one she'd heard earlier that day when addressing the theatre company, she turned her head in welcome surprise and set the rose down on the dressing table with a smile.

"Raoul!"

He stood there, resplendent in his formal evening wear, the bouquet of winter lilies and snowdrops she had earlier seen Firmin carry now in Raoul's possession, along with the bottle of champagne. As if they were his to give, he set the flowers to one side and the champagne on the pink-clothed table near the door, a table filled with sentimental items a girl might treasure – three books of childhood tales, a wooden music box, a green and white vase filled with pink roses, with statuettes of two children at its base, and a red portrait fan bearing four ovals.

"…Or of riddles, of frocks," Raoul continued the stanza from the childhood story she knew so well and they had read to each other that one long-ago summer.

Christine thought of her own perfectly fitting frock and the riddle it presented before continuing with the next line.

"Those picnics in the attic…"

"Or of chocolates?"

Her smile grew wistful at the actual memory. "Father playing the violin…"

"As we read to one another dark stories of the North."

He knelt down before her, so that their eyes were at the same level; his still as bright and mirthful as the boy she'd known. She could almost visualize the bittersweet scene of their past, with her and Raoul as children, sitting on the floor, side by side, and thumbing through the fragile pages of a book of dark fairytales by Hans Christian Andersen, while Papa stood by the hearth and played his violin.

In recalling their past, what seemed a lost dream, her most favorite tale of all and what they'd been reciting prompted her to finish with, "No, 'What I loved best' Lotte said, 'Is when I'm asleep in my bed…'"

"And the Angel of Music sings songs in my head," together they sang in harmony, as they had when they were so very young. "The Angel of Music sings songs in my head…"

"_You_ sang like an angel tonight," Raoul praised with a warm smile and leaned in to embrace her in greeting. Christine returned the heartfelt gesture, and when he pulled back, somehow the forbidden words tumbled from her lips, no doubt brought on by their playful recitation and all that happened in the chapel with Meg. At least, Raoul would understand.

"Father said 'when I'm in heaven, child, I will send the Angel of Music to you.' Well, Father is dead, Raoul." A trace of emotion colored her voice from missing her Papa, even after all these years. "And I _have_ been visited by the Angel of Music."

A strange expression, something like nervous impatience swept across his handsome features. "Oh no doubt of it. And now – we go to supper," he said with a lift of his brows and decisive nod.

Christine stared after him in shock as he bounced back to his feet to turn and step down the two stairs, his stride long.

"No, Raoul. The Angel of Music is very strict!"

He swiftly turned. For the briefest moment his face went ugly with outrage, but in the next instant, the fierce expression was gone. Christine reasoned it must have been a trick of light and shadow and she imagined his unfavorable reaction.

"I shan't keep you up late," he said smoothly with an affable smile, as if it were all some great joke.

"No Raoul!" Swiftly she rose to stand, watching in dismay as he strode with confidence to the door.

She simply could not go with him, not when she had plans to meet with her Angel!

He turned at the door. "You must change. I'll order my carriage. Two minutes, Little Lotte."

"Raoul wait!"

And just like that he brushed aside her refusal to accompany him, as if it was of no account, and exited the room, the door closing shut behind him. _Well, he has certainly stepped into his role of Vicomte_, she thought miserably, the nobles always ordering those beneath their station about, as if it was their privilege. And she supposed, as he was now a respected patron of this theatre, perhaps it was.

But tonight, she had other plans. And not even to reminisce with a long-estranged friend from her childhood would she cast them aside.

"Things have changed, Raoul," she said, staring at the closed door. "_I _have changed."

Christine snapped out of her daze with those soft-spoken words. She _must_ change – and with all haste.

Rushing to stand behind the dressing screen, she carefully shed her beautiful costume, intent to hurry to the chapel before Raoul's return. She had no wish to offer more excuses, and he would never understand what she couldn't tell him. She wished now she had never revealed what had been locked so long inside her heart and thanked Providence that he clearly thought her whole disclosure a flight of foolish fancy, as did Meg.

The excitement to see her Angel and the message of the brilliant red rose returned in a rush and colored her decision on what to wear for the encounter…

A bit brazen, her choice was still quite lovely, with its pure white lace and décor of pink rosettes running along the edge of the low-cut bodice, the skirt composed of the same delicate material that would hug her slender form, a slit traveling from hem to just past the knee. A wrapper of matching lace with long bell sleeves subdued the daring appearance of the ensemble; still, warmth heated her cheeks at her selection. She reasoned that he had seen her in a state of similar undress when she visited the chapel as a child in her night-rail. And as a woman, she'd often gone to her lessons in nothing but her long chemise, adding a wrapper for modesty sake, since the hour for her training was late, when most within the theatre slept. There were times after their secret tutorials, when exhaustion would cause her quite literally to fall into her cot and into dreams…

Tonight was special, and Christine wanted what she wore to reflect that. Perhaps, and she grew flustered to think it, if she _had_ misread the message of his rose and he did not intend them to meet face to face, this then might be the lure to entice him from the shadows, at last.

XXxXX

Madame Giry stood half-concealed beyond the jutting wall and watched as the dark, silent figure extended his black gloved hand to twist the key in the lock of the door behind which Christine presently changed, trapping her within.

Of course Madame knew that he sensed her watch him, though he did not once look her way. And so, she could only wonder if he was within his own faculties or if something else presently controlled him. Both Maestro and Master saw and heard everything that took place within the Opera House, their spies in every nook and corner, above every catwalk and rafter, ready to report anything of interest that occurred inside the theatre.

A shiver of apprehension shuddered through Madame as she watched the progression of their plan unfold in all its dark glory.

Not for the first time, she felt she should speak and ask the Maestro to reconsider – to meet with Christine, yes, and end this deception; she was most assuredly in favor of that. But above-ground where it was safe; not hidden beneath the earth, lost within the maze of his home...

And not for the first time, she held her tongue, subservient to the unspoken order of silence, only to quietly slip away.

All over the Opera House, a sudden breath of chill wind swept from wall to wall, as if from an unseen giant, extinguishing every flame of candle, lamp, and footlight and casting the chambers into thick darkness. In the auditorium, the glow behind four curtains of red velvet wavered but held, surmounting the cloak of shadow that rapidly descended over the empty theatre.

Christine stepped from behind the tall screen in the dressing room, her attention caught up with tying the flimsy belt of her wrapper. A sudden waft and crackle of air brought her startled focus up to the nearby table to see the trio of candles in the candelabra there blow out, three of four portraits in the red fan giving off an eerie blue glow. Instantly, to her right, the multitude of flames from every candle on the vanity sputtered and extinguished in a sudden whoosh of air, and much to her puzzled horror, her image in the looking glass disappeared along with half the room, buried in impenetrable darkness.

With her breath caught somewhere in her throat, Christine whirled about and hurried to the door, but before she could turn the handle, a voice steeped in rage halted her panicked flight. A voice wanted and familiar…

But not like this.

"_Insolent boy_! This slave of fashion, basking in your glory. _Ignorant **fool!** _This brave young suitor, sharing in _**my** triumph_!"

Her Maestro and Angel was here! In this very chamber! He was _not_ waiting in the chapel to greet her – and by his angry words he'd been present when the Vicomte visited and heard everything Christine said to him – everything she'd sworn never to share! She had foolishly basked in Raoul's praise, in the praises of the Girys and others, and in her girlish giddiness she'd let the secret kept for nearly a decade slip out not once, but twice. To Meg, to Raoul.

Oh, curse her wretched tongue!

She swallowed hard before daring to reply, her voice a mere tremor, "Angel, I hear you, speak, I listen, stay by my side, guide me…" She turned anxiously from the door, lifting her eyes to the ceiling, as if she might find him there. "Angel, my soul was weak, forgive me – enter at last, Master!"

An icy shiver trickled down the length of her spine with the hopeful, fearful utterance of her final words.

"Flattering child, you shall know me…" The voice she loved so well sang sweetly to her again. Her heart no longer quickened in fear, but with hope. "See why in shadow I hide. Look at your face in the mirror; I am there inside!"

His startling instruction brought her gaze fully around to the massive mirror. Her reflection had returned and to her astonishment, the many pink roses that earlier filled the chamber had turned snow white. Surely her eyes deceived in what truly did not exist, as illusions had seemed to trick her mind all evening…

Yet all of that paled in a moment, once she saw that not only her image was reflected in the mirror glass, but a man's face appeared and looked back at her! With the door directly behind, he could not be standing there, though that was what the image implied...

No…he was _within_ the mirror!

The candlelight in every holder had been extinguished. However, a peculiar, shimmering mist filled the room and produced a pale blue light to see. Drawn to him, with her heart beating in stunned anticipation and the strange mystique of it all, she almost wasn't aware that she slowly had begun to walk across the long rug, her eyes wide and mouth parted in wonder.

She was so overwhelmed, she could form no words with her lips and sung from her mind into his, as he'd taught her, "_Angel of Music, guide and guardian, grant to me your glory__…Angel of Music, hide no longer, Come to me, strange Angel__…"_

"I am your Angel of Music…" A deep whisper that sparked a trace of foreboding hid behind his beautiful song. _"Come_ to me, Angel of Music…"

She inhaled a flustered breath of confusion, that he should think of _her_ as what she had always considered him – and call her by that name.

_Angel of Music… _

_Guardian and keeper…_

A sudden rattling shook the door's handle behind her on the opposite side of the chamber, but Christine was barely aware and continued her slow, ethereal march, taking the first step up to the mirror.

"Whose is that voice?" the Vicomte called from outside the room "Who is that in there?"

"I am your Angel of Music…" Her Maestro's glorious tenor filled her ears with its sweet, sweet sound, beyond which the echo of a raspy whisper could still be heard.

"Christine!" Raoul cried, his voice growing farther and farther away. The door shook frantically in its framework. "_Christine!_"

Aware of nothing but the image of the mysterious man before her, Christine focused only on him. Her lids grew heavy, her body almost drugged as she slowly covered the distance through the glowing mist, closer and closer, as if entering a dream.

"Come to me Angel of Music," he continued to sing, so soft, so beguiling...

She could see now that what she'd thought an illusion from a distance was true - he wore a mask on the right side of his face, the rest of it cast in darkness. A half mask of bone-white…just like another being about whom she'd heard.

Dear God – her Angel was not only mortal, as she'd wondered, as she'd hoped, but he was, without doubt, the infamous Ghost – _the Phantom of the Opera!_ Who was also... a man.

And yet… though all others did…she found that she did not fear him. His mesmeric eyes of deep green reassured and compelled her trust.

The reflective pane slid away without her realizing it disappeared – and there he stood in the flesh, standing so tall before her, half of him still hidden in shadow, his body concealed by a full-length cloak of black lined with shimmering gold.

She could scarcely breathe, scarcely think, and when he stretched forth his hand in invitation, she hesitated in a moment's uncertainty, before slipping her fingers against the cool leather of his glove and allowing him to pull her beyond the mirror's gilded frame.

XXxXX


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews! :) Again, I blended as much of the hidden plot as I could into this tale, especially in narrative, while weaving in my own idea of that plot, which is a prelude to my stories: The Quest, The Treasure, and The Claim (the latter still in progress). If you have any questions, feel free to ask. If you want to see the hidden plot scene summaries with all of what we have found, I have been putting it up on a private group at Facebook - (still in progress) - just do a search for Hidden Plot -ALW's Phantom... and now...**

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**XXxXX**

**IV**

He felt the tremble of her hand against his glove and had to control his own hand from shaking.

By all that was holy, she was here! He was with her. Touching him, touching her…a moment he had begun to despair might never occur.

Doubt attempted to overtake assurance, but the presence of which he was ever aware grew stronger, girding his courage. He held his head high, his gait more confident as he led her forward, deeper into his labyrinth of tunnels, every few steps turning back to discern her reaction …

Christine felt as if she was floating in a mist through the gold-lit corridor, barely aware, and yet oddly sensation came stronger. Everything was amplified - her fingers that tingled against the smooth kidskin leather of his glove, the gossamer of her skirts brushing against her thighs above the white stockings, the chill of the flagstones against the soles of her silken-clad feet.

In mesmerized awe she studied the walls enclosing the narrow corridor of stone upon which were mounted _arms_ with hands, each holding five candles that blocked their path. But if that wasn't bizarre enough, _they_ _moved aside_ to let them pass and again closed the way behind them, as if in welcome deference to their arrival. As if in _obedience_ to their master.

Bedazzled, she could not bring forth the words of song through her voice, silently acknowledging who he'd been to her…who he was to all of them. Twice he turned his head to give her a sidelong glance, as if to ascertain she was truly there. She felt almost dizzy at the forceful contact of his one gray-green eye behind the ivory mask that seemed to glow, and she turned her interest away from the living candelabra to study him instead.

Beneath the ankle-length cloak, his shoulders were wide, the hair that touched his embroidered collar possessing the sheen of lustrous ebony. He walked with an alluring, animalistic grace and held himself tall, like a member of the aristocracy. In wonderment, she followed his lead, barely aware of their trek and oddly unconcerned where he was taking her…

They took a bend in the path and approached an area of the cavern that declined in a tight spiral, his torch the lone light that flickered in the well of darkness. As they made their descent, at last she found her voice and continued her song aloud, in soft but awed accusation -

"…the Phantom of the Opera is there - inside my mind."

Once she named him, her first time to call him by any title other than Angel, he immediately looked back at her in surprise, his eyes swiftly roving her face to form before he again set his attention to the path, with his torch held out before him.

She had seen past his disguise, somehow, to the truth. The knowledge lent the Phantom more fortitude, and as they came to a second area of descent, where four candles glowed against the wall, he took up her aria with words of his own. As he sang, the power that had become his nature swelled until it thrummed throughout his blood…

Christine stared ahead in curiosity at the black stallion standing at the bottom of the decline that led into the second cellar. She again turned her gaze in wonderment to the living legend beside her, watching as he abruptly brought the torch to sweep before her face. Despite the enormous flame, a sudden dark mystique seemed to emanate from him; surely it must be a deception to her eyes that even the bright lining of his cloak darkened in that moment. In his close stare she saw something intense, something unnamed…

Something that frightened her.

"My power over you," he sang with firm assurance bordering on demand, "grows stronger yet…"

Christine anxiously looked away and behind, toward the tiny and distant flames of light and the bracketed candles that glowed against the stone wall. Where four had earlier flickered, now three remained lit.

"And though you turn from me, to glance behind…"

There was Darkness in the shadows, a Darkness unnervingly familiar and at the same time mysterious…alluring. Possessing. A Darkness she had sensed within the opera house for a very long time.

"The Phantom of the Opera is there, inside your mind."

He set the torch into a low holder and led her to the black stallion, his manner now seeming almost uncertain. It was perhaps for that reason she did not shy away but allowed him to place his gloved hands so intimately around her waist and hoist her high upon the sidesaddle. Her pulse raced in her ears at his touch, so breathtakingly personal, and yet the gloves he wore somehow made the required act a formal politesse.

The man she now knew as Phantom did not seat himself behind. Christine was both grateful, at a loss for the stirring of foreign emotions inside her, and conversely dismayed not to feel his strength and warmth against her back. Fright, a bird that had inexplicably fluttered away...

He led the stallion down a third incline lit by one candle at its summit, the gold returned to the lining of his cloak and glimmering in the candlelight. His magnificent voice decreased in power to caress, his words a persuasion. The white lace wrapper of her ensemble draped behind her along the horse's backside in a long train, and indeed, she felt like a privileged member of royalty with the manner in which he treated her. As they neared the bottom of the third cellar, one side of the cave wall fell away to reveal a lake underground.

Christine gasped to feel his hands at her waist once more and rested her own hands on his shoulders for balance as he carefully lifted her down. She felt somewhat breathless once her feet touched the bank and he did not immediately release her. They stood, facing each other, so close…until he retreated a swift step as if just aware of the liberties he took. Liberties not unwelcome...

The Phantom led her the brief distance to the water's edge and a sleek black gondola embellished with elegant gold décor. He assisted her to sit on matching cushions near the long prow, upon which were mounted two lanterns and a carved skull of gold. At the rear of the boat, a third lamp hung suspended, and he took the step down to stand behind her then reached to the damp cave wall for a long pole that rested there.

As he pushed them along a narrow canal and the luminescent green water that appeared lit from deep within, she resumed her song, sensing his silent demand to do so within her mind. Her heart was aflutter and eyes wide in wonder with each astounding moment that elapsed. On either side of the boat lit candles were held by those same gold-armed candelabras, a series of one, then four, then a trio to her right, with each holding five candles aglow to her left. She mused over the pattern repeated from their trek downward, then thought about it no more.

They soon approached an area of the subterranean cave where frightful gargoyles had been chiseled from the brown rock and mammoth twin statues of Atlas bearing the world on his shoulders guarded the walls ahead. Sensing a presence that did not belong, the Phantom looked over his own shoulder. A swathe of white light followed at the stern, that which she had brought with her from her world, growing ever closer as if to overtake them in its radiance.

With a scowl, he swung his head back around to look at the flat rock that shielded his lair and impatiently poled them closer.

"Sing, my Angel of Music - _**Sing for me!**_**"** his latter words came more urgent and resounded throughout the hollow cavern. And as her crystalline runs reached heights once unattainable, he felt a visceral sort of pleasure burn throughout his blood.

As if awaiting their arrival and in obedience to a silent command, the barrier of stone across the water ascended, the crimson and black tapestries parted, and the third barrier of a portcullis began to rise. Lake water streamed off their end iron spokes, and a multitude of candles clutched in holders similar to those throughout the cavern cellars rose steadily from beneath, their wicks magically igniting into flame the moment they met with the chill air. In the midst of each contrivance of right-armed candlesticks was a three-pronged medallion of gold bearing a ghoulish black face. And directly ahead, a massive organ of ebony wood gleamed on the precipice above, with golden pipes that stood side by side in stair-step descent and shone in the candlelight.

They moved through the entrance, the white ribbon of light that followed catching up to them and engulfing them in its brilliant, blinding glow. Once the boat fully entered the lair, as tall and wide as a cathedral, the Phantom swiftly brought the iron portcullis down, thus preventing the intrusion of light from streaming further into his refuge.

Christine continued to sing in the highest of sopranic notes. She glanced away from the impressive instrument with its array of keys, knobs and pedals and looked to each side of the boat, at the tiered and gilded candelabra that rose from beneath the still green water and added their own flames to what appeared to be a dwelling place at the harbor's edge, all aglow. Everywhere, there was such repetition of candle, fire, and lamp, as if in a bold attempt to bring daylight so far beneath the earth.

A magical place of fantasy and dreams, and Christine had to wonder if, indeed, she might be dreaming...

x

Once her song came to an end, the Phantom brought his gondola to moor on the bank and nimbly jumped to land, propping the long pole against the cavern wall. She watched with a dazed sense of awe as he swirled the long, heavy cloak from around his shoulders and onto the ground with refined grace, then glanced back at her before turning his attention to where his steps took him, up a short set of stone stairs.

In a whispery voice that caused her spine to tingle and not altogether comfortably, he addressed her, "I have brought you to the seat of sweet music's throne, to this kingdom where all must pay homage to music…"

She stared in shock to hear him speak to her as if he was a messenger that delivered her to an imperial realm. He moved to his pipe organ, briefly turning his back to her and clutching the edge of the instrument as if suddenly…troubled. But any concern for his quicksilver change of mood, from aloof and confident to anxious and uncertain fled her thoughts as his next words quite took her breath away.

"Music, you have come here, for one purpose and one alone, since the moment I first heard you sing I have needed you with me to serve me to sing for my music, my music…"

Again he addressed her as Music! He sang to her differently, his tone changed, less distant and with tender strength. As the meaning of his words seeped into her startled mind, she looked with wide-eyed wonder around the elaborate grotto, taking a keener study of the furnishings and noting what she had missed before…

A high-backed throne of gold with a crimson cushion stood near the entrance of an open bedchamber. Expensive tapestries of rich-hued thread in crimson and gold hung throughout the cavern. Myriad gold statues depicting royalty and divinity stood on tables and along the walls also veined in red and gold, different from the cave rock outside the chamber: Kings, queens and emperors, as well as demigods, gods and goddesses, the one exception being a bust of a famous composer, oddly masked, that sat atop the organ next to that of a woman, strangely veiled. Heraldic shields stood propped against the rock of a short cliff beneath the organ, pointing to noble ancestry. Splendor and majesty outlined every detail of his hidden home, and the realization of the answer she had long yearned to know nearly made her swoon as the truth of his odd greeting echoed in her mind.

_'__The seat of sweet Music's throne…to serve me, to sing…for my music…'_

She had wondered and pondered and questioned if her mysterious, unseen entity could be both her Angel as well as the Phantom _or_ the mysterious King none had ever seen. To realize he was _all_ _three_ stole any utterance of what she might reply as the distinguished, elegantly-dressed man turned at the top of the stairs and slowly approached the boat, observing her carefully, as if awaiting her reaction to the truth.

Her Angel… the _Phantom… the King…_

She could not tear her gaze away from his tall form as he moved with feline grace that suggested a wild restraint, his eyes glittering like golden-green jewels, the thoughts of what they concealed a mystery. His hair gleamed sleek as a raven's wing, and a porcelain mask of ivory concealed half his face. What she could see of the left side was pale, his features noble – a straight nose, an appealing mouth, the lower lip fuller than the top, a strong sculpted jaw. Slender of body, perhaps too much so, but clearly not lacking in strength…

This was he who called himself her angel? A _dark_ angel came the sudden thought. There was something so intense in the look he gave her, both tender and commanding, and as he sang of the nighttime and darkness and heightened sensation she felt riveted to his every move. Not for fear but with a nervous sort of expectation.

And his voice…

His familiar velvet voice, so fluid, so heavenly reached down to the very depths of her soul. Was it any wonder that, sight unseen, she once thought him a celestial being? And now he stood before her, no angel but a man, as she had long hoped…and dreamed.

He extended his gloved hand toward her, his eyes a silent appeal.

Without thought, Christine laid her fingers against his glove as she had at the mirror, startled with the impact so simple and quiet a movement would stir within her core. More intimate now that they were in his home, alone and unchaperoned. And yet, such familiarity felt right...felt natural. She had never seen him before this night, but she had known him for over a decade - longer than that, her heart insisted. As if for all time…

Eyes fixed to him, she stepped out of the boat and walked where he led. He crooked a finger, beckoning her to draw even closer.

The trapped white radiance pulsed brighter, catching her attention, and curiously she turned her head to glance toward the gate, stunned when she felt his gloved fingertips beneath her chin. Gently, he pulled her eyes back around to his.

"Turn your face away," he commanded in his voice of dark liquid gold, "from the garish light of day, turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light…" He smiled in persuasive pleasure. "And listen to the music of the night…"

While he sang, he led her several steps further then came to a stop, first looking down to his left then to his right. She followed his gaze, again bewildered when she saw a diorama of the theatre with a doll depicting her center stage. The snow-white gown it wore was most certainly a replica of the Empress dress from Act 3, proof that he had arranged for her to wear the gown long before she'd become a stand-in for La Carlotta. Proof that Christine's debut had been the cause of no 'accident.' Proof that he had been behind the falling tapestry and indeed, every incident that led to her public solo performance…

What this all meant or _why_, she wasn't yet sure, but as soon as the idea came it fled, as his mesmerizing eyes again caught and held hers.

Slowly the Phantom withdrew, keeping hold of her hand while she watched in curiosity. She had undergone a vivid transformation from the girl he'd met in the looking glass, the alteration having begun the moment she stepped beyond its gilt frame. Her hair was no longer up and primly pinned but bouncing in long abandoned ringlets over her shoulders and back, glossy and wild. Her features had achieved a more womanly look, her eyes now pronounced and seductive, her lips wet and cheeks no longer pale but heightened with the same rosy hue. Her entire gown, even her _skin_ sparkled with shimmers of trapped light, as it never sparkled before.

She was as breathtaking as a goddess and as enchanting as an angel…and she was a beautiful woman within his grasp. His to bend to his adoration and will…

He released her and spun on his heel to take the stairs in a jubilant move, coming to a stop and whirling again to face her. Softly he ordered Christine to close her eyes and allow her spirit to soar. He held the last note in booming confidence, his powerful voice moving through her being and singing through her blood, almost _burning. _In wonder, she again opened her eyes, his words branded across her heart.

King…he was _king_…of _Music._

And he called her Music too.

He approached, again holding out his hand. As if in slow motion she raised her arm to accept his hold and follow where he slowly led, up the stairs to stand in front of his pipe organ. He sang of music caressing and possessing her, all the while staring deeply into her eyes. Making a slow, seductive circle around where she stood, he lifted his hand with an enticing little crook of his gloved fingers.

Heat washed through Christine's veins. She felt somewhat unsteady as he slowly retreated in backward steps. Her eyes made a bold sweep of his form from head to toe, and it became more difficult to breathe. She wished he had not again left her side, watching as this Phantom King moved around the bend of the organ to its rear.

And as she watched him, he never once took his eyes off her…

His manner became bolder, almost fierce as he urged her mind to leave this world, to leave all thoughts of the life she had known, to be where she longed to be - and buried deep within the burgeoning desire he stirred inside her heart, she felt a shiver of fear…

Fear of the unknown. Fear to realize his words were true. Fear to ponder what this could all mean...

Her soul acknowledging that she _did_ belong to him.

Having made a full circle around the organ, the Phantom again slowly approached from the opposite side, his voice once more growing tender, almost tentative…

"Only then can you belong to me…" He sang the words with a plea in his voice, coming close and lifting his fingers to barely touch her jaw. She looked up at him in fretful expectation, never uttering a word of protest as his fingertips lightly brushed down the sides of her neck, his hands moving to cup her shoulders and turning her so that her back was pressed to his chest.

Oh, sweet mercy…_never_ had she felt like this!

"Floating, falling, sweet intoxication…" His wide palm made a slow, emboldened sweep beneath her breasts, stunning her, while his other hand clutched the curve of her waist. He then swept his touch down her side to her hip. The path he took burned like fire and she melted against him.

His fingers slipped down to touch her hand, clasping the back of it in his and lifting it to press her palm to the unmasked portion of his face. Another rush of heat washed through her, her eyes fluttering closed as for the first time she felt the warmth of his skin, the soft stubble of his jaw…

The _man_ behind the mask.

Feelings already in sweet turmoil, ones never before experienced, coiled within her belly…a breathless and restless surge of energy…a warmth and stirring so intense it was almost a discomfort…her heart raced beneath his touch along with the insatiable desire to get even closer to him. Was this desire?

"Touch me, trust me," he crooned in gentle encouragement, "Savour each sensation…"

She turned her head eagerly against his shoulder, to do as he bid, when suddenly the Phantom took a step back, more than a little uneasy to experience such closeness with another mortal for the first time in his existence – with _her_. Still, in his elation, he could not release her hand; nor did he wish to. And he held it tenderly in both of his.

She cocked her head a little in smiling confusion that he acted contrary to the words he sang, urging her surrender then himself retreating. The Phantom enthusiastically continued to persuade her to let the dream begin and give in to his music of the night.

She was his Angel… his _queen – _and oh, how he yearned for her to share in this destiny appointed for them, silently begging her consent and ignoring the warning that whispered into his mind from the shadows – that she was not yet ready. That she was an innocent and he was taking things much too swiftly; that he must wait...

But he had no wish to wait, and by her enthused reaction, she wanted this as much as he did. At the knowledge, he yearned to unveil all he planned for their future together.

He led her down the opposite steps. Willingly she followed, a soft smile on her lips, her eyes adoring. The candlelight seemed to grow brighter, even as the tall lamp standing in the corner briefly lost its flame when he passed, while the half mask slipped lower from his bust atop the organ, the black band holding it in place thinner than before… the dark spirit that forever sought control growing weaker as the man within emerged to become stronger…

He gently brought her around by the hand as she continued to stare into his eyes with that sweet, trusting smile, until she shifted her attention in front of her to the grotto where he had led.

Christine stared, at first not comprehending that the mannequin placed there had, to her eyes, become _real_ and not only real – but an exact replica of her face and form in a_ wedding _dress and veil! Her jaw softly dropped in shock before the world began to spin and darken until the breath left her body.

Feeling her dangerously sway, the Phantom grabbed her just as she slumped into a faint and barely caught her before she hit the ground.

_Fool_, he berated himself as he shifted her weight in his arms and brought her up against his chest so that he could carry her. He _had_ acted too swiftly, frightened her once again with his plan for their future, frightened her so terribly that she had fainted from the very idea of becoming his bride, from seeing herself in the dress as he had willed her mind to perceive…

He took her along the path to the gold Phoenix bed, the frame of which was a clamshell of silver, and laid her upon the violet and rose-colored velvet sheeting. So close to his Angel when a barrier of rock eternally separated them before, he couldn't immediately bring himself to leave her side as she lay insensible. Tenderly he sang to her, as a lullaby, stroking the delicate curve of her jaw, wishing he had courage to do so without the glove, until he forced himself to pull back and straightened to stand.

Taking a few steps in retreat, he couldn't bear to look away from her lovely features, even as he pulled the lever that brought down the filmy black curtains which shielded the bed.

He watched her through the gossamer weave as she lay in sweet repose…so peaceful. So beautiful. The other half of his soul and the melody of his heart.

Could she ever accept much less understand this destiny that was theirs to share? He had bestowed to her a part of his spirit - and in that sense, they were already one. More to the point, could he keep the illusion of grandeur alive in her eyes and the love that burned for her branded deep inside her heart? Or were the encroaching shadows too powerful and determined... a villainous plague intent on blotting out all that was meant to be good…

Trapped into this Hades underground, he could never venture to live above, in a world that mocked and reviled him. He must do all within the realm of possibility to make his home pleasant for her sake…Christine simply _must_ agree to stay and live with him here, as his queen, as the shadows whispered was the sole manner in which their reign together could commence.

He felt their familiar tug, the dark urging to submit to the wretched and inexorable pull, but now that at last he had his beloved with him, the man inside stood firm and resisted.

He would resume as _he_ saw fit. She would not refuse her Angel, though it was his heart's desire that she come to accept the man.

XXxXX

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**A/N: Thank you again for the reviews! :) Just a note- I'll be posting a short prologue of my PotO/ Man in the Iron Mask story this weekend, so those interested, keep a lookout ...  
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